Fifty Shades of Meh, Ctd

I was amused yesterday to find this essay on the aptly-dubbed 'mommy porn' book "Fifty Shades of Grey" in the London Review of Books. The reviewer, in a sentiment which I echo, says that the more erotic 'literature' (the inverted commas inserted for effect) becomes, the more he feels compelled to laugh:

I suspect the book has taken the world’s mums by storm because there’s no mess on the carpet and there are hot showers afterwards. Everybody is comfortable and everybody is clean: they travel first-class, the rich give presents, the man uses condoms, and everything dark is resolved in a miasma of cuddles. In some quarters the publishing phenomenon of the year has been called ‘filthy’. But that must be a joke. It is a litany of swelling breasts and spent individuals, none of whom would be terrifically out of place at the more modest end of Mills & Boon. The expensive silk tie on the cover tells you everything about the acquisitive vibe behind the whole thing, the appeal for mothers who wouldn’t mind a slightly naughty son-in-law if he also had tousled hair, an Audi R8 Spyder, several apartments and a general handiness with the black Amex.

The line that I found most amusing from the article, though, was when O'Hagan talked about how funny the book is. But not intentionally so. "In the absence of good comedy," he says, "there is always the appeal of bad seriousness." Indeed.

Previous Report coverage of the phenomenon here.